


Aphrodite Movements

by kurgaya



Series: Hallucinogenic Gentleman [4]
Category: Bleach
Genre: Alternate Universe - Always a Different Sex, Explicit Sexual Content, F/F, Female Ichigo, Female Tōshirō, Happy Sex, Just Sex, Sorry Not Sorry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-01
Updated: 2014-07-01
Packaged: 2018-02-07 00:56:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,807
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1878933
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kurgaya/pseuds/kurgaya
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Christ,” the ginger stammers. She trails her lips along the inside of her lover’s thigh and thinks the skin is far cooler than it has any right to be at that moment. “Christ I can’t get enough of you.”</p><p>A pleased noise answers her. Ichigo vows to amplify the sound before she’s finished wrecking the captain.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Aphrodite Movements

**Author's Note:**

> I thought to myself ‘writing my next hurt/comfort prompt in the Hallucinogenic Gentlemen series sounds like a good idea’.
> 
> Instead I bring you sex. And nothing but happy, sappy sex. Enjoy.
> 
> (Slightly) NSFW [ fanart!!](http://amalli.tumblr.com/post/146070577216/part-two-to-this-because-i-had-really-wanted-to) by amalli over on tumblr. THANK YOU AGAIN! :D

It starts as most things do between them – with an exasperated eye roll from the workaholic captain and a smitten,  _wicked_ grin from the unstoppable sun of a substitute shinigami.

Tōshirō complains that _she puts up with this relationship_.

Ichigo laughs. _As if I don’t have to put up with your unrelenting attitude_ , she teases.

There’s a challenge in those words. (Everything about Ichigo is challenging and it’s incredible). One of them jumps when the last of the paperwork is shoved aside – but it might be both of them, because they’re wearing mirrored expressions of delight and desire when the top sheets spill off and glide across the floor.

The charmed captain _relents_ and lets her chilly reiatsu fawn over the fire of her girlfriend. She counts Ichigo’s rosy stammer as a concrete victory as they abandon their clothes and tumble into the next room. The bed isn’t far. Tōshirō’s rationality cannot claim the same once Ichigo slips out of her robe and kicks off her underwear, as if the cold corner of the bedroom really wants the Disney printed fabric to blindfold it from witnessing their progression into flawless chaos.

“Lie there and let me finger you,” Ichigo blurts as she works open her partner’s kimono and throws the obi across the room. Aroused and freely pliant under the hot rushes of Ichigo’s skin, the absence of Tōshirō’s sensibility means she is too lost to register that her underclothes swiftly join the last of her half-hearted complaints on the wooden floorboards of her quarters. The emerald glimmer of her kimono remains spread atop the bed, but she is uncaring about its foreseeable ruin as Ichigo dives down for a kiss.

“Gently,” Tōshirō soothes. She cups her lover’s jaw and rubs her thumb into the tiny blushing freckles. Not a single ounce of Ichigo’s youthful energy diminishes at the plea, yet she mirrors the hold with a tender movement, dotting affectionate kisses through Tōshirō’s poised demeanour. _Always_ , they promise with hushed murmurs and earnest sighs, _I will always be careful_.

They sigh against each other, exchanging wisps of longing.

Ichigo traces her fingers down the scars and bruises of her girlfriend’s life. Her hazelnut gaze follows, trailing along Tōshirō’s figure. The fiery substitute marvels as she always does at how small the skilled shinigami is. She loves it – secretly, openly, and universally – because she can tuck Tōshirō under her chin, hold her little hips, and share with her the most intimate of experiences as she scoffs at the world that thinks her sharp and curvy lover is a child, full of innocence and naivety.

Their kisses are idle; fragments of bliss. They slide together, two pieces of a puzzle with jagged edges that reform into something greater, more significant and perfect. Ichigo easily shadows the silver lustre of her lover, yet Tōshirō opens, allowing the burn to overwhelm her. There is a hand at play somewhere, fingers teasing the bumps and dips of skin (“Just one,” Ichigo purrs. “Bet I could just use one”), but awareness escapes them as they lose themselves in the motions.

Gasps between them expire time.

“ _Lower_ ,” Tōshirō hisses. _You should know that_ , adds her glare.

Ichigo does, but she pulls away and wraps herself in the cry of Tōshirō’s kiss just to be annoying. The pillow bows beneath the captain’s head as she claws into it, but she’s not fighting the movement – no, her wild and irregular grasps encourage the swift work of Ichigo’s hand. Ichigo loves it; revels in undoing the knots of stress and formalities of her partner. Though she mumbles a routine complaint about Tōshirō’s overachieving nature when they break the six AM morning with a brief goodbye, wordlessly brings tea and biscuits to raise her girlfriend’s sugar levels, and teases when the paperwork mountain pushes back the hour of their dinner to dark and starving, Ichigo worries about Tōshirō. She worries about her burdens, her efforts, and the patriarchal society they’re stuck in, so she savours these moments of release; of affection, and she tries her _damn well hardest_ to provide the relief that Tōshirō needs.

These endeavours usually end in uninhibited laughter and soft groans of private promises and hopes.

They’re perfect.

Ichigo kisses the slight round to her lover’s chest and decides she’s the luckiest woman alive. The happy sigh her adoration earns her is an alluring reward, but she isn’t satisfied yet – _Tōshirō_ isn’t satisfied yet. Ichigo grins into her partner’s shoulder and slides back to roll her tongue over an awaiting breast, licking a quiet noise of approval from between the parted lips panting into the pillow. Her battle-worn hand slips further around the curve of Tōshirō’s body, but true to her word, she only allows one finger to persist their gentle swirls and circles amid the heat of her girlfriend’s enthusiasm.

It does not take long for Tōshirō to forget about the world around her, her virtuosity sheltered behind closed eyes and aptitude smothered in the tender sensation of Ichigo trapping her at the edge of disarray. She gasps and groans and pushes back against her lover’s hand, but quiet she stays, and loud Ichigo aims for.

It is only a matter of time before the ginger smile achieves her goal. Ten minutes, if that, before Tōshirō’s strict control over her body has melted into the sheets and creased them around her glistening form. A startled ‘ _oh_ ’ of approval is all that’s needed to encourage a smirk of triumph from Ichigo's wet lips. She responds with a quick curl of her hand and the exact touch of pressure needed to feel Tōshirō’s body squeeze against her, encouraging her to step up her game and _do something for god’s sake I am so close_ –

Tōshirō’s knees knock together as delight ripples through her body. Her teeth shine in a brilliant, unexpected smile as she laughs and rolls onto her side, her body instinctively tucking itself under the safety of Ichigo’s chin. Her overwhelming happiness kisses mumbled words of warmth into her partner’s neck. Ichigo curls herself around Tōshirō’s shuddering figure, supporting her gently as she whispers words of awe into the silvery hair. She is reluctant to entice the slender shinigami back into her customary state of composure, preferring to witness the uncharacteristic bubble of bliss and pray it lasts forever.

“I told you,” murmurs the ginger with her own joyful smile, smoothing down the tangled flurry of her partner’s snowy hair. “I told you I could do it.”

The last of Tōshirō’s pleasure dances in her breath as the waves hiccup through her; it tickles her lover’s neck as she laughs at the victory in Ichigo’s tone. When the petite woman finds the energy to peer at the blur of bronze and marmalade beside her, her teal gaze blinks at the sight of her partner’s flushed skin. Tōshirō is momentarily unable to comprehend how she has come to be curled into the loving cocoon of fluttering fingertips and the gentle touch of sheets soothing her boneless form, but she feels protected and adored so she doesn’t question it. Instead, she submits to the drop of her eyes, sighs happily, and Ichigo jolts and flails around a coherent sentence. Tōshirō twists the fine strands of autumn firestorm around her fingers and guides her blubbering lover down for a kiss.

“I really, really want to use my tongue,” Ichigo blurts around the cool, strawberry-red lips that have claimed her words. Tōshirō is acutely aware that she doesn’t mean for kissing (they’re already doing that), and hums at the declaration. It is not as if Ichigo still truly has to ask permission when they’re coiled and hot together, but the wintry shinigami appreciates the consideration all the same. Slipping her arm over the dip of the other’s back, Tōshirō tempts the caresses to continue, pressing open-mouthed verses of silence into Ichigo’s blazing heartbeat as if they are answer enough.

When the auburn fire of a woman has been reduced to a loved mess of grumbles and reassurance, Tōshirō suggests, “How about you let me return the favour?”

She does not expect Ichigo to decline, but she does, groaning all the while. “If you let me eat you out first, you could fetch one of the vibrators and screw me into next week?” she asks boldly, and Tōshirō’s reiryoku wavers longingly, fuelled by a trace of surprise at how _perfect_ her partner is. Ichigo’s inner inferno responds in kind; she guides Tōshirō onto her back again and laughs at how she falls apart without any further encouragement. The smaller shinigami doesn’t say anything as the blizzard of her hair expands out in a storm, but her hands rub small circles into Ichigo’s orange locks, whispering enchantment, and her eyes are dark with the depths of an ocean, unexplored and promising adventure.

“You’re gorgeous,” Ichigo utters, and _fuck_ she is so, so aroused.

Tōshirō mumbles something and turns her face back into the pillow she has debauched, scrunched up in her steel grasp. Pale legs shift and shake as Ichigo crawls across the bed, her tanned fingers swirling patterns into the figure beneath her, the arch of her breasts hanging low over Tōshirō’s waist. The young human has always believed she looks ridiculous on her hands and knees – her curves and limbs in all the wrong places – but her partner has only ever had wide, roused eyes for her body, alight with a sky of desire. The wondrous expression upon Tōshirō’s face gives Ichigo confidence to smile and play, and she certainly puts it to use.

Tōshirō knows this all too well.

“Christ,” the ginger stammers. She trails her lips along the inside of her lover’s thigh and thinks the skin is far cooler than it has any right to be at that moment. “Christ I can’t get enough of you.”

A pleased noise answers her. Ichigo vows to amplify the sound before she’s finished wrecking the captain.

Tōshirō conforms to silence during the most intimate of their moments; unlike Ichigo, who blabbers her way through nearly all circumstances as Shibas do, murmuring and whispering unceasingly as they rock the bed and rock the upheld professionalism of their relationship. The arctic dragon dwelling in the centre of Tōshirō’s being simply huffs and groans as if apathetic to it all. It has thus become a challenge for the woman who has matured into gangly, golden limbs of Labrador movements to discover the spectrum of her partner’s voice – a demanding quest (as noted by the endless kisses and impatient fumbles) but a pursuit they both profit from in the aftermath of their igneous delight.

Ichigo hums as she glides down Tōshirō’s body, teasing her most private skin with the tips of her fingers. “I was thinking the purple one – the long one,” she ponders aloud, the whispers of her thoughts prompting a sharp lurch and a startled breath from her other half. “You know the one I mean?”

The reply is an unintelligent sound, broken off by chapped and ruby lips. Ichigo knows just listening to it again and again would sate her desire, yet the thought of having Tōshirō on top of her, _loving_ her, makes her entire body tremble with need. Laughing, she slides downwards – pauses a moment, wondering if doing so is enough to encore the cry – then immerses herself in the thrust of Tōshirō’s hips and the flare of icy reiatsu that tempests against the heat of the room.

She takes Tōshirō’s arousal as a clear _yes – yes, I know the one you mean_.

“Stop moving your legs,” Ichigo reprimands with an amused tone, but if she was truly bothered about the motions of Tōshirō’s pleasure she wouldn’t be laughing as she devours the taste, smell, and sight of her partner rocking against her.

“Oh, _forgive me_ ,” the captain mutters sarcastically, tugging Ichigo’s choppy hair to guide her back up the bed. The substitute moves willingly, powerless to question the change as she’s engulfed in a kiss. Tōshirō feels like love and laughter; Ichigo wonders if she tastes the same, or if the sticky scent upon her tongue is enough to overwhelm the treacle tart and chocolate doughnut she hadn’t wanted to share for lunch.

Tōshirō doesn’t appear to care either way. Her mouth chases Ichigo’s as they pull apart; pale fingers tangle in the fiery strands, but it is her heart and soul that burn as they press against each other.

“I thought –” Ichigo gasps, two words being all she can utter in the breaks of their breath. “I thought you wanted me to –”

“I’ve changed my mind,” says Tōshirō factually, which isn’t much of a revelation given the ferocity she’s using to snog her lover. (Innocent? Have you seen her?) “Get whatever you want out.”

 _I want another orgasm out of you_ , Ichigo thinks, but she dutifully slides off the bed and retrieves the toy she desires with eager hands.

They both have their favourites, accomplished from exploration and the inclination to give even the most extravagant ones a go. Breaching that conversation the first time with Tōshirō had been interesting, to say the least. Ichigo hadn’t exactly been an expert on the various ways of achieving sexual gratification when she had primarily suggested the idea, but the captain’s sheer lack of insight – _awareness_ – had been startling.

(“It’s not… as hefty as I imagined,” Tōshirō had muttered after watching Ichigo open up one of the first of their nervous purchases. She had rolled it over in her hand, seeming for all intents and purposes as if she expected it to bite her.

Ichigo remembered giving the small cylinder vibrator and her girlfriend’s flat expression a cautious glance, the urge to blubber out a hysterical sob building in her gut. “It doesn’t have to be large to be effective you know. And somehow I don’t think ‘hefty’ is the description the company was hoping for.”

That, at least, had prompted a smile. The vibrator was still carefully put to the side and scrutinised by teal-blue wariness, however, yet a beaming smile had shone on the ginger woman’s face at the prospect of familiarising her girlfriend with the pleasures of their new and colourful gadgets.

“Trust me,” Ichigo had said, leaning across the bed to seal her promise with a kiss. “You’ll love it.”

Tōshirō had).

They shuffle into complementary positions. They’re drawn to each other; unable to cease kissing and caressing and loving, so it takes longer than expected for a fervent finger to tease Ichigo’s anticipating body. The lubricant is cool and slippery when it slides inside of her and she cringes despite Tōshirō’s care – she’s never truly enjoyed the initial moments of penetration, but her endurance is always worth it in the end.

“We should totally go out for dinner tonight,” she blurts.

Tōshirō hums an ambiguous agreement and works tiny coils into Ichigo’s skin with her thumb, swelling the pool of desire that already coats her fingers. She says nothing in response (used to her girlfriend’s rhetorical babbles), but the substitute blushes anyway, as if her suggestion is one to be embarrassed over.

“Unless you’re going to be up for cooking?” Ichigo tries to joke, though if either of them can even crawl out of bed once they’re finished then clearly she hasn’t done something right.

The captain twists her hand so that Ichigo jerks, hissing through her teeth at the sensation. “Ah – _shit_ – fucking – add another finger _oh my god_ –”

“I’ll pay,” says the silver-haired _fucking goddess_ at the end of the bed.

The stare she receives is utterly incoherent. “Pay for what?”

Tōshirō laughs. Ichigo does her best to retrace the conversation to the moment of her blunder, but the rhythmic movements thrusting in and out of her are thoroughly distracting. She ultimately concludes it’s not even worth the effort when she rises up off the sheets and swears wildly at the shake of her legs and the tremble of her lips. The tantalising smile Tōshirō gifts her with reveals the mastermind behind her memory lapse.

“Dinner!” Ichigo abruptly recalls, mentally smacking herself. “Dinner – right – yes –”

Her toes curl against her lover’s white thighs. She quakes and gasps and blacks out for a second, overwhelmed by the swiftness of Tōshirō’s fingers. There’s more than a stream of curses rippling through her, and it takes a minute for them to subside to the comfort of hands under her jaw and kisses into her hair. But Tōshirō is patient – a selfless soul – and she waits for Ichigo to find herself again (though there is nothing quite as pleasing as counting the seconds for lively cognisance to return).

“Ramen?” she proposes.

“Sex,” Ichigo corrects. “More – right now. Lots of it.”

Tōshirō adheres to the enthusiastic suggestion and grasps around for the vibrator.

Dinner is late that night.

But they work up an appetite.

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you liked it :)


End file.
